You are the greyness of the sky above me, biting the black of these buildings. The damp world puddles at my feet and I stir it with my thoughts. I fall. Fell. But you were everywhere else but waiting for me.

I touch the pavement beneath. It is hot and wet with spring rain and my feet curl into the rainbows of the black roadways. Your voice is a single note, a cello, and it leads me forward and pulls me under the streets until I fall into the saltwater beneath. And as I stare at all these underwater tunnels, I hold my breath because I know which one leads to you. I know every inch of the inside, and I am so deep in imagining what it would be like that I can feel the cracked surface, each inch of tar, the bumps and ridges of stone. I could surface and see your face. I hold my breath, but you aren’t holding yours. And I see everywhere else I could go. You aren’t the oldest road I could swim through to the light. I could stay beneath city streets. Because somewhere the music grows quiet and I can feel my own melodies and somehow it is cooling. My skin is hot and the rumble of life above me makes me tremble. I pause.

How long have I lived? you wonder. I say: How many times have I whispered? Here the world is hanging from a string and spinning, strange and merciful, like the loosened voice of peace. And nothing is as spacious as this moment.


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